i've got a war in my mind
by aquapen
Summary: During that twenty-third edition of the Tenkaichi Budokai she discovers she likes watching him move.
1. The Beginning

_I hear the birds on the summer breeze  
I drive fast, I am alone in midnight  
Been trying hard not to get into trouble  
But I, I've got a war in my mind_

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 _i_

Everything begins and everything ends. This, _the mess_ , starts in May with a pair of big black eyes staring at her from a very close distance.

There is something unspoken in the way they slowly widen in what is, unmistakably, pure and unconcealed wonder and she tries to hold that stare, blinking and blinking dumbly, not knowing what to think of the young man (who once was a chubby monkey boy) standing tall before her. She sees, by the way he reaches with one hand to touch her painted lips, that there must be something strange in her own eyes as well – and decides to end that unspoken something by slapping the hand away.

The bubble bursts, but curiosity had settled in fast.

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.

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Her eyes follow him around the ring, entranced.

This is not the first time she's watched him fight, but it feels like it is – during that twenty-third edition of the Tenkaichi Budokai, she discovers she likes watching him move. And how can she not? He is a true force of nature, light but imposing, powerful but in control. It's marvel and delight, like watching fireworks – and she feels adrenaline pumping through her veins as she observes the way he spins and jumps and bends; and his angular features, and the full mouth curved in a cocky smile, then the wide shoulders; and the muscles, tight and sleek under the pale skin.

Of course he wins the tournament and, as a result, saves them all; and she convinces herself, now more than ever, that he's a creature apart, not of the sky, not of the earth. Her hands are itching to reach and touch him, see if he's real – if he would touch back. The thought sounds preposterous, but then she remembers his eyes glued on her lips and tells herself that yes, he would. Maybe he would.

Then he flies away with the other girl.

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The next time she sees him, he has a sickeningly cute four-year-old son and she genuinely wonders if she's crashed her car and is in a coma, dreaming the whole thing up.

He smells like the forest and the ocean, all at once. His smile is warm and forthcoming when his eyes trail on her face like he was never gone for five years. They're dark but inviting, like newly tilled earth.

" _Pretty wild, huh?"_

She considers his choice of words – _wild_ is the understatement of the year. But still, she crouches and greets the little boy the way a long-lost aunt would and when she straightens, she deliberately ignores the amused if slightly surprised look the father is sending her direction.

The funny thing is that the big revelation that comes only moments later – that she was right all along in never trying to label him, not in any way the Earth could understand – and the madness that ensues are almost nothing compared to the bombshell that is _Son Goku: family man extraordinaire._

None of that is actually funny, though.

.

.

.

On planet Namek the grass is blue, the sky is green, the heat merciless and they are waiting for Goku, as you do.

There is not an aspect of that mission that isn't turning into a gigantic fiasco and Krillin and Gohan must be thinking they're the dynamic duo or something, because they leave her on her own once again – but she's too pissed to be scared and too hot. (and in her heart of hearts she knows that, come hell or high waters, he'll make everything okay.)

So she falls on her back on the dry grass and lets her eyes adjust to the unforgiving light of the three suns – she sighs and pretends she's sunbathing by the pool of Capsule Corp. while the clouds move slowly above her head.

That cloud has the shape of his hair.

Bulma gasps softly.

Something hits her with scorching clarity – she does want him. But she wants him in the most ruthless and terrifying way, that makes everything else fade into transparency and it should be unacceptable for her; but while she stares at the cloud she thinks she doesn't care if she'll go to hell – she would gladly sell her soul to the devil if that means she can thread her fingers through the black hair of the ex-monkey boy once, just once and _his_ fingers, god–

It's a desire that burns her to a cinder, that eats the marrow of her bones.

She wants to know how they feel up her back, over her spine should he pull her closer; the muscles of her thighs tighten microscopically and her pulse gallops fast and thin in her throat as she imagines Goku's hand sliding down her belly, brushing on her skin until he lets it slip under the elastic of her panties–

And his weight on top of her; and his sweat onto her.

The three suns keep pounding on her head and she suddenly remembers that there is someone who doesn't have to wonder what it's like to make love to him.

Her stomach churns – she feels sick. Jealousy is coiling beneath her ribcage like a rattlesnake, it cuts off her breathing – so much she thinks she's going to die from it when the most magnificent notion flashes in her fading brain: it could be Chi-Chi who could die. People died all the time, all over the world, for every each reason. Chi-Chi could very easily die and set Goku free.

"I guess that would make me really selfish," she says out loud, bursting into a lunatic wheezing giggle; but true remorse doesn't come to her until much later, when the second phase of heat exhaustion sets in and she vomits in the toilet bowl of the Capsule house, cursing Son Goku – and him alone – for having the guts of making her dream of him and for trying to turn her into such a despicable being.

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She thinks she can forgive him when he doesn't let her (and the universe) down and she makes it back to Earth all in one piece; she's too happy to hate anyone, much less someone that, in spite of everything, is making her heart swell with pride (and nothing else).

That nobody will ever know about her ludicrous, tridimensional daydream on planet Namek, well – that's just the cherry on top.

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.

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Almost two years pass before they see each other again in the middle of a desolated nowhere that apparently is a very popular spot in more than one universe. He's there, but they're _all_ there – and anyway there's too much going on, too much to think and talk about, so it doesn't count. It _shouldn't_ count.

Bulma cocks her head to one side, taps her chin with a finger.

"A time machine?" she muses, her voice trailing off in fascination.

Only then, and by chance, she looks up and catches Goku's curious glance – he's smiling as he's looking at her, but the smile doesn't quite make it to his eyes, which is very odd. There's something in them very intent and calculating but, before she can dwell on this unprecedented occurrence – or on what she could possibly have done to put such an expression on his face – she starts to feel weird and uncomfortable and maybe she's being paranoid, but she cannot control the heat rising to her cheeks. He's making her feel _undressed_.

It's like the unraveling of a beautiful, outrageous secret for a moment. She tells herself she'd rather die than look down now _s_ o she raises her chin a little, daring him to look away first. When he _does_ , immediately – it doesn't feel like a victory at all.

He's handsome in a new, more chiseled way than she remembers – she imagines cutting the tip of her index finger on his cheekbone and closes her hand in a fist. She narrows her eyes and examines his confident, wide open stance, the hands on his hips, the way the others talk to him and listen to him and laugh with him, surrounding him like satellites. There is something ineffable about him, an effortless magnetism in the way he bears himself; she can feel it too – in the little tug in her stomach, just behind her navel, begging her to get just a little bit closer.

"Have a healthy baby!" he says then as a goodbye, friendly and warm, but there is something calibrated in his voice; his black eyes are twinkling mischievously and Bulma has the distinct impression she's the brunt of a joke she has no hope of understanding; but it's too late to call his name and demand for an explanation so, once again, she just let him fly away. At her side, Yamcha is laughing faintly but she's _fuming_.

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She doesn't wait another bunch of years or for destiny – or for the end of the world or for whatever – to pull them back together like stubborn magnets.

His eyes are still burning all over her flesh and she is too pissed at him, too restless, so she finds him the next day thanks to Chi-Chi's directions (of all people).

She spots him lounging in the sun by one of the many streams of mount Paozu, fishing rod at his side, birds chirping all around. She marches towards him and he stands up like he knows exactly what's coming at him and he's right – but she doesn't waste any time being impressed at how easily he can read her even though they barely talk, even though they barely even saw each other during their supposed _adulthood_.

"Do you mind telling me," she roars without preamble when they're finally into each other's personal space, "what was that all about?"

"Huh?" he says, bringing a stupid arm to rub the stupid back of his neck and grinning, so good at feigning ignorance and innocence – but didn't he know? The charade is over, she's seen him; she _too_ can read him now.

"Goku," she seethes, tight and bitter. "I swear to god, if you don't start talking right now–

"Bulma," he interrupts quickly. "We're friends, right?"

She rolls her eyes. "Don't remind me."

"You'll have to trust me on this," he says in his even-tempered, infuriating way. Something resembling an apologetic (sad?) smile stretches on his face. "I can't tell you."

Bulma's blood shoots to her head. "Why were you looking at me like that?"

"Like _what_?!"

"Just answer my questions!"

" _No_!"

There's a wild, frantic look in his eyes; Bulma tries to hold that gaze, but it's a second too long – she plunges and resurfaces.

"Go to hell!" she yells when it's clear he won't say what she's there to hear. She will never, ever admit that it feels for some reason like the breaking of a promise. He gulps and recoils and the rattlesnake in her chest slithers and hisses in satisfaction; she spares him one last look of contempt before turning on her heels and storming away, thinking that she wouldn't be surprised if, after that, they're _really_ never going to see each other again.

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Everything begins and everything ends and somewhere along the lines she and Yamcha part ways with a tenuous goodbye kiss on the cheek before she starts having sex with Vegeta once, twice, one million of times.

A self-serving act from both parts, she knows – her nails linger and graze on the spot where the tail used to be and it's great fear and pleasure, all at once; and to the part of herself that absolutely _craves_ the adrenaline that is enough – until one morning, when she has to pee on a plastic stick, already knowing the verdict in her guts and hoping for the first time in her life to be proven wrong.

When it doesn't happen – as if – she panics for a ferocious half an hour before dwindling down and deciding _this is it_.

Time to grow up.

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She buries it in some part of herself, the memory of those sparse glances, of the way they felt on her skin. She hides them underneath her clothes, beneath her heart.

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Three years and a different may day later, Bulma likes to think (though nobody really wants to fight her on this) she's a poised and well-adjusted mature woman – scientific genius, happy mother of Trunks.

She's a grown-up; the girl who used to ride on a motorbike in her pink nightgown is long-forgotten, she wants everybody to know this – and all the animosity toward him is blown over, but she doesn't know what she's setting herself up to when she introduces her infant son to her friends.

She can tell immediately, by his lack of surprise, that he already knew. But _how_ – when she finally learns the truth, she shatters. She can't help it, she doesn't even know exactly why. She just thinks about Goku's eyes that day by the river and feels cheated; rejected and manipulated in the most merciless way – she can even hear the laughter and the rude comment in her mind, in his stupidly endearing country inflection:

 _"Well, duh! For a genius, you're pretty dumb."_

 _._

 _._

 _._

She doesn't know if she's supposed to thank him or to strangle him and the doubt alone is galling, enough to make her hate herself. The scientist in her guesses that's what you get for pushing boundaries like that.

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So she hates him – she decides.

Joy doesn't even begin to explain what she feels when news reaches her that he's pulled through that weird heart-virus incident; when she sees him up and alive and well she feels her heart stir and her skin crackle with goosebumps in a way she's familiar with but that still, after all those years, she hasn't been able to put into words – but she absolutely loathes him.

She hates the way he stands there on Kami's Lookout, all smiles and smirks and jokes and words of encouragement all around; the way his eyes don't seem to stay on her any more than necessary.

No, no – she thinks. Hate is too much. Too much effort for someone who, in his infinite wisdom, has made a lot of decisions without ever consulting with her. She feels a flash of guilt, and then of shame and then of anger because _of course_ she loves Trunks so very much and of course _now_ she knows she wouldn't have wanted history to have gone in any other different direction – but he is _nothing_ to her regardless, much like she seems to be nothing to him, if not for the inexplicable, random and invisible thread that seems to bind them together since the beginning of time and then beyond, and then across it.

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.

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He needs something.

That's the only reason he's there, she tells herself; this newest version of him, with the blond spiky hair and the loose slacks, the canvas trainers with the big white laces. He's sitting backward on one of the metal chairs of her lab, tinkering with the dragon radar, clumsily with his large hands, zooming in and out looking for the nearest dragon ball so he can start his quest.

She's just finished listening about how he convinced a little namekian child to become the new god of the Earth – and this new reason to always feel a little bit safer and warmer and like there's a little less to fear when he's around is making her eye twitch.

"You always get your way, don't you?" she says, trying to sound normal, trying to make it pass as one of those 'oh-you _!'_ condescending remarks she's sure he's heard quite a number of times before (though never from her). She just cannot stomach the way he has everything and everyone wrapped around the finger.

"Nah," he says without looking up. "Not always."

Bulma's eyes narrow. She pulls a crisp white sheet over the shut-off form of Android 16 lying on the working table and lights a cigarette with a few flicks of her lighter, unable – as usual – to absorb his voice and then to feel at peace afterward. She exhales, leans against the counter behind her back and glares at him for a moment through the stream of smoke when a sudden thought crosses her mind.

"I was thinking," she begins, haughty as ever. "That a 'thank you' would be nice."

He's less than zero. She has nothing to fear from being alone talking to this man – the one she used to maybe want, maybe hate and maybe not and that now is finally looking at her with perplexed, glowing green eyes. (that ought to be unfamiliar, but they're not.)

* * *

 _..._


	2. The Dialogue

_E dill' na vota sola, si pur tu stai tremman_  
 _Dimm' ca me vuò bene._  
 _Cumm'io, cumm'io, cumm'io voglio bene a te *_

 _ii_

"I was thinking," she says, "That a 'thank you' would be nice."

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.

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 _Bulma being Bulma, she liked to think she always knew everything. But if only she had known this –_ this _, of all things – she would have probably done something she rarely did: she would have shut the hell up._

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He looks up at her words, a quizzical look on his face, and her breath itches because suddenly she doesn't know what possessed her to prolong the confrontation – she's not sure what she's trying to prove, and to who, and for a brief second she hopes to god – or Dende (was it Dende?), or King Kai – that he doesn't rise to the bait – before remembering that, Goku being Goku, it is not in his blood to flee from a good fight.

"Huh?" he says. "For the radar?" He quirks an eyebrow. "Sure."

"No," Bulma huffs, wanting to smack him across the face for treating the dragon radar, one of her biggest accomplishments, like it was no big deal. She's already tired of pretending he doesn't know how to get under her skin. "I did technically save your sorry ass with my time machine and my superior brain, didn't I?"

Goku's face lights up. "Oh, yeah!" he says and his smile is genuine, so much that Bulma thinks she's being unfair, that she's just imagining the mischievous glint behind his teal eyes. It lasts less than a second anyway, so she gives him the benefit of the doubt. "Thank you!" he says, cheerful indeed. And then – "Though technically, I don't know if I got this right, but isn't the time machine the way Cell got here in the first place?"

He goes back to fiddle with the radar, just like that. Bulma stares, speechless for a second.

"Just… " she starts, but she doesn't have the words. "What are you trying to say?" she seethes eventually, "That this is all _my_ fault?"

"Oh, hey, relax," he replies. "I'm just kid–

"No! _Oh_ , no!" Bulma doesn't let him finish his sentence. "This is your mess, Son-Kun!" she spits, her words dripping with a venom she cannot control (not that she tries). "In fact, as far as I recall, Cell, Android 16 over here and the other two or three or four or whatever, you know, they were all built to kill _you_!"

There's an infinitesimal pause. Goku cocks his head slightly to one side, his eyes dart to the ceiling as if thoroughly considering the matter for the first time. He shrugs a little, a tiny little shrug.

"Well..."

"Right, and you know what," Bulma continues as she takes a quick puff of her cigarette and exhales hastily, "sometimes I think we would all be better off without you acting as a stupid magnet for stupid bad guys."

She leans back against the counter, her need to have the last word satisfied – and then she sees Goku's eyes go wide ever so slightly – the green and blue oddly unsteady while he searches her face.

"Really?" he says, and there's this new intonation to his voice. It's something she cannot fathom, nor she's heard it before; a _n emotion_ – so strong that Bulma inevitably draws a sharp breath; she feels the blood rising to her cheeks, hot and red, as she realizes she can't stuff the words back into her mouth and make them disappear.

"I… that's not the point," she says and crushes her cigarette into the nearest ashtray even though she's not even halfway through it, something to do to escape the raw and open expression on his face. "The point is that thanks to _me_ now you're here and we can fix the whole thing. I'm the brain, you're the brawl." She instantly feels like she's said something stupid, she doesn't even know if he's familiar with the saying. Her voice goes up an octave. "Right?"

Goku blinks. "Yeah. "

"Yeah," Bulma echoes dumbly. "Anyway, it's unbelievable how I'm such a genius in this universe _and_ the next, I'm constantly amazed by my–

" _I_ can believe it," Goku says, planting his eyes firmly on Bulma's face and she stops fidgeting at once, feeling like an idiot; the blood in her cheeks throbs harder. "When Trunks told me about this time traveling stuff, _I knew_ he was talking about you–

"Well, of course…"

"– what I couldn't believe was _the other thing_..."

"What?" Bulma says and then she scowls. "Oh, shut up, you moron!" she snaps, but if she's honest she's relieved – grateful, even, for the silly wiggle of his eyebrows that tells her he's not going to lose any sleep over anything she might have said (or over anything at all, really). She feels her stomach unclench at his sudden decrease of intensity.

"It was _whoa_! So weird!" Goku is saying with a barely repressed giggle. "But not as weird as _actually_ seeing you with a baby!"

"Seriously, Goku?" Bulma retorts, mostly playful, grinding her teeth only a little. "You're the one to talk? That time you showed up at Kame House to introduce Gohan to us – well, for a second I thought I'd inhaled something funny Roshi was smoking."

"Really? Why?"

"I don't know. It made me think."

"That you were getting old?"

Bulma glares, Goku laughs. It's a beautiful laugh; it bubbles without restraint from his belly to his lips, weightless, while his eyes crinkle at the corners and it's like a little sun peeking through the clouds. Bulma breathes in and out deeply and that's when she reminds herself that he's not supposed to make her feel _anything_.

"Very funny," she deadpans. "Well, since you're asking," she begins, detached as she can get, "I wasn't expecting you to do something so ordinary."

Goku raises his eyebrows. "Mh?"

"You know, to actually get married, have a kid... be like everybody else." She studies his face before continuing. "It was weird. Disappointing, in a way."

 _There_ , she thinks. _You asked._

He doesn't say a thing at first; he just sits there, backward on the chair, looking at her for a moment before standing up with this catlike grace that never ceases to take her aback, coming from him. He pockets the dragon radar inside his ridiculous varsity jacket and rubs the back of his neck pensively.

Well, _there_.

"You're pretty mean today," he says when his eyes stop trailing all over her. "Even for you."

Bulma scoffs. "Don't pout," she retorts sharply. "I was surprised, that's all. It's within my rights."

She makes it clear with her voice that this is where she's chosen to end the exchange – she pushes away from the counter and makes a beeline for the door. After all, there's nothing left to say.

"You pulled off the biggest surprise, though."

Bulma freezes with one hand on the door handle. She stands very still for a long moment, hoping – not for the first time that day – that she's just imagining the piercing tone of his voice, the underlying connotation. She turns very slowly, in rigid motions – and it's like something crumbles down between them when their eyes meet again.

"What the hell does that mean?" she hisses when she finally finds her voice past the lump in her throat.

Goku takes a step closer to her, and then another – and then another – until she has to tip her head slightly backward to keep the eye contact, much to her chagrin (she _so_ hates the fact that he's _so_ tall). She stares and waits – not able to really gauge anything by his expression alone.

"Vegeta," he says.

Bulma's jaw tightens. "Yes?"

"And _you_."

"Yes."

Goku's face suddenly contorts in a funny grimace – as if the thought is both painful and hilarious at the same time.

"Why? I mean _how_?"

Bulma's hands tremble against the urge to punch him. "How can you even ask that?"

"I'm just curious!"

"You are, aren't you?" Bulma says between pressed teeth, her eyes reduced to slits of turquoise. And then she can't help herself – a nasty smile stretches on her face. "So whilst we're on the topic," she ventures, "why Chi-Chi?"

"What?" Goku says with a chuckle, and it's clear he doesn't think there's a connection between the two things. "Because I had promised."

Bulma glares for a moment. "That's it?"

"Yeah. That was it."

"Was?" she echoes. "So you love her now?"

"Yeah, I think so," he says with a little shrug. "Sure."

"You think or you know?" she presses on and there's a moment, less than the fraction of a second – they stare at each other as if they were enemies.

"What about you?" he fires back.

"What about me?" Bulma says. "I like her okay. Can't say I know her very well, though."

"Hehehe." Goku's soft laugh sounds like a peace offering, an opening – something to put an end to the fight they were not even aware they were having. "Nice try," he says, and he moves nearer, so that the space between them becomes nothing.

Bulma presses her back against the door. She can smell his piercing, unique scent – forest and sea and sky overlapping together – and there's no way out, she realizes; she bites the inside of her cheek, breathes heavily through her nose, her mind racing. Trunks. _Vegeta_. The gravity room, a pair of cold eyes, a relentless obsession. And then his anguished screams, the fear, and the thrill, the curiosity, find out what makes him tick. Traces of something hidden underneath – and then again the obtuse distance, the absence – and in the end it all comes down to not so many days ago when there had been no line; when, knee-deep in his delusions of grandeur, Vegeta had been perfectly willing to let her die, to let their son die so that he could keep on feeding his ego without _interruptions._

"I… I don't," she hears herself blurt out and her mouth trembles imperceptibly; it's not much, but it's still a lot more than she intended to say and it's too late to take it back. She lowers her eyes on instinct. "I don't know," she adds then – thinking that, at the very least, a genuine doubt is less disgracing than a love that's expressed with a shrug and a _'yeah sure'_. It simply _looks_ better (and she _so_ _much_ wants to be better than Goku at this, _especially_ at this). "I don't expect you to understand," she murmurs.

"Hey." Goku's voice comes out startlingly affectionate, soft around the edges, like she has never heard it before. "Why are you sad now?"

Bulma looks up, eyes hardening at once. "I'm not sad," she says quickly. "I just hate it when I don't know something right off the bat."

"Mmm…" Goku crosses his arms on his chest, he raises his eyes to the ceiling as if deep in thoughts. "Can you keep a secret?" he says eventually and Bulma eyes him warily.

"What?"

"I don't know what I ate for breakfast this morning right off the bat," he says with a huge, stupid grin. "Hey, did I just see a smile?"

Bulma shakes her head. "You're an idiot."

"Let me see, let me see!" Goku says and with his fingers he tries to coax her chin up, and in retaliation Bulma lowers it even more, of course, squirming, trying to keep him at bay – and most importantly to hide the laughter that is actually fighting to erupt from her throat because, no matter how hard she tries, when she looks at him all she can see is light – a precious thing in such dark times.

" _Ugh_ , stop it!" she says, swinging up an arm to cover her face – "Goku, what are you _doing_ –

– arm that promptly collides with Goku's nose.

" _OUCH!_ "

Free at last, Bulma looks up – she's met with the most stupid (cutest) and pathetic pout she's ever seen.

" _Ow_! That hurt!" he whines, and Bulma rolls her eyes to cover yet another grin tugging at the corner of her lips.

"Baby!" she chides, playing the game, and Goku chuckles, gingerly rubbing his nose –

"Bulma?" he calls then and Bulma's heart starts to pound faster.

"What is it now?" she inquires – every muscle in her body tensing painfully, as though they're bracing for some kind of danger.

"I like your smile," he says, so easy. "I don't want you to be sad, ever."

Bulma blinks. "I said I'm not–

"I'm sorry, you know."

Bulma's breath catches in her throat. She swallows. "You're sorry?"

Goku's eyes are soft, gentle, almost impossibly so. He nods. "Yeah," he says. "For not telling you. But Trunks told me I couldn't and–

She snaps, "No, no, _don't!_ " all but shrieking, bouncing away from her tight spot against the door and away from him, and turning and pacing around the room like a madwoman. She can feel his eyes never leaving her, but she doesn't want to hear _that;_ she shouldn't, she _can't_.

"Don't!" she says again, and when she becomes aware that she's begging she presses her hands against her cheeks in an effort to bring herself under control, her fingertips pulling at the sides of her eyes.

"Don't you ever say that again!" she says. "I'm glad you didn't! Do you hear me? I'm–

"Bulma, I said _I_ am sorry–

"You–

"– is it too late?"

There's a spark lightning Goku's eyes – this earnest, boyish look she knows from somewhere; she's felt it burn on her face before, trying to cut under her skin, a rainy afternoon of too many years ago – yet she remembers the goosebumps igniting every nerve ending in her body like it was only yesterday. It's a scary, unacceptable memory and she wants to scream – _you, you, why are you doing this to me?_ She wants to shake him, to shout at him, to hit him, even, anything, _anything_ to wipe that look off his face–

"…I don't know what you mean," she croaks instead.

"Bulma," Goku says, and now he's the one who's begging, even though he doesn't say anything – just her name – but she understands. She _does_ know. She can see it, clear as day – in his once again unguarded eyes, in his exhalations, in the way he walks slowly toward her while she slips back without thinking, trying to shrink away – or was she drawing him further in?

She hits the wall at her back and stops. He stops too, so close, and for several moments they continue to stare at each other, neither of them speaking. She sees his Adam's apple bob up and down and feels a droplet of sweat glide between her shoulder blades and then down, to the small of her back. The skin covering his throat is pale and tender, in striking comparison with the muscles all around – she pictures herself grazing it slowly with her teeth. It's a sudden, obtrusive image and she shivers – suddenly the floor feels like it's being pulled from underneath her feet; the room appears to be spinning and she shakes her head, trying to steel herself.

"You should go," she says abruptly. "You're wasting time. Those dragon balls aren't going to gather by themselves."

Goku's shoulders drop a little – he seems hurt. There's again that unexpected emotion etched on his face – Bulma tells herself she doesn't care. Why should she care? She's suffered too (she'll never say it out loud) so why should he be spared? She has no sympathy for his supposed sufferings; she never thought him capable of it but, since he apparently is, it's only fair that he takes a turn.

"Alright," he says, relenting with a sigh and it's like he's deflating. "Bye... then?"

Bulma nods curtly. "Yeah, bye."

The terse send-off hangs between them. Goku hesitates; he pauses for a moment, he waits for something that doesn't come. Bulma just stands there, her heart racing, waiting impatiently for him to see himself out through his _oh-so-useful_ instant transmission and he does indeed lift the two fingers to his forehead – casting her one last glance before closing his eyes to concentrate.

Bulma watches in silence – part of her idly wonders when they're going to make eye contact again – when a sudden desperation grips her chest.

"Wait!" she gasps, grabbing his free hand between hers and tugging, hard enough to throw him out of balance; in her mind it's like she's pulling him away from the edge of a black hole and back into the light just in the nick of time; and then the knowledge comes and with it a sense of foreboding – she realizes she doesn't want him to get out of close range and far, far away – somewhere where she cannot follow.

Goku looks down at her in confusion, his eyes wide, full of questions – but she can only repeat herself.

"Wait." She can barely hear her voice over the blood roaring in her ears. "I..." she hesitates; the words she's about to pronounce have rarely left her mouth _._ "I'm sorry too, then."

"What?" Goku says. There's an honest-to-god surprise in his voice and for once she can't bring herself to blame him. "About what?" he asks.

"About everything I said, I–

"Ah, it's okay–

Without thinking, Bulma stretches a hand to touch his lips slightly with her fingertips. Goku's words get lost.

"No, it's not okay," Bulma says quietly. "Not even a little. I got mad and I..." Her throat seizes up and she has to pause. Her eyes flickers all over his face – his nose, his cheeks, his forehead and she finally finds the strength to put into words the thought locked behind her tongue:

"There's… there's... there's no danger of you ever being like everybody else."

As soon as the words are out, she feels a weight being lifted from her chest. She closes her eyes, briefly – she feels free, but it's a terrifying kind of freedom, different from anything she's ever experienced before. It feels a lot like falling, a freefall she has no hope of breaking – she can only go forward now, rushing on toward an inevitable end.

She opens her eyes and Goku's staring at her, lips slightly parted, as though he doesn't quite know how to answer.

"Oh," he says slowly. Then he smiles. "I know."

Bulma lets out a tense little laugh.

"You _know_?" she says, attempting a wry smile. "Get over yourself, Son-Kun."

"No," he says, simple as that. "I mean I know because I feel the same about you."

"Oh."

Bulma has no reply to that. Part of her wonders if she's dreaming. The silence in the laboratory is very thick – just the sound of their breathing. She swallows hard – trying to come up with something clever to say, but there is no easy way out, not through words.

"Goku…" it's what she manages at last; but it's a mangled gasp of his name because he's so close now – all she can see is gold, gold strewn across the green and blue of his eyes, green and blue disappearing behind fluttering eyelids, and then warm, tentative lips skimming clumsily upon her lips, and his breathe, soft on her skin – she hardly has a moment to react –

She closes her eyes –

In a moment, they're kissing.

* * *

.

.

.

* _And say it, just once, if you're trembling too/ Tell me you love me/ Like I do, like I do/ Like I do love you._


	3. The Room Where It Happens

_Hein qu'est ce que je dois faire?  
C'est vrai j'dois bien finir quelque part  
Loin de tes terres, de ta mémoire  
Je voulais juste te dire au revoir  
Juste une dernière fois te revoir  
Avant que j'erre, que je ne m'égare  
J'aimerais qu'on se serre  
Puis qu'on se sépare*_

 _iii_

She tells herself she doesn't remember exactly what led from one thing to another, who went first and who went last, or that she remembers things in the way one remembers an old dream – now and again, when something jogs her memory.

She thinks maybe – maybe – she remembers her lab coat abandoned on the floor, and the almighty silence. She knows she remembers the way the muscles of his back tensed while he put his shirt back on and the sound he made, soft and wet, of lips that are ungluing, of a mouth that's about to speak.

And that's all.

.

.

.

At first, it's a skin-tight kiss.

Goku's mouth is barely open against hers and she's so shocked that she helplessly kisses him back, eyes squeezed shut and shoulders drawn up in tension. It's an unbearable sensation, all and nothing – her knees go weak and she stumbles a little and he snakes an arm around her waist to hold her up. Momentum carries them: he pulls her closer, her palms fly to press onto his chest and then it's over before she knows it.

 _Like throwing themselves from a cliff_ , is the thought that crosses her mind.

.

.

.

He pulls back, not too much – because she can still feel his breath, hot, tickling, fanning all over her face – but _enough_ and she has to open her eyes, even though she feels so dizzy (she's been holding her breath for too long now – too afraid to breathe, too afraid of the sound she would make).

This close ( _so_ close), he's even more handsome than her fantasies of him, even under the harsh artificial light of the laboratory, but it's hard to read his precise expression. He looks vaguely stunned, but not quite, so her eyes dance on his face, trying to solve this mystery he seems to carry anywhere he goes: they flick on the sharp cheekbones, they linger on the flesh of his half-closed mouth and on the lipstick stains surrounding it; by all means, those smudges of rich purple should look comical – blasphemous, even – on _Son Goku savior-of-them-all_ , but they don't: he looks magnificent and something stirs just below Bulma's stomach, something akin to frustration, a humming ache that crawls downward and that she recognizes all too well. She swallows thickly, still struggling to breathe in the space between their mouths, terror and anticipation drying up all the oxygen in her lungs.

"What are you doing?" finally she asks, when she cannot stand the silence any longer; thankfully, her voice comes out almost without any intonation – it quivers only slightly.

His arm is still circling her waist, her hands are still flat against his chest. He feels solid, warm and smooth under the cotton of his shirt and he's holding himself very still but, underneath her palms, she can feel his heart beating at an odd pace and she's still trying to process this indisputable, almost scientific _fact_ and the weird giddiness she's getting out of it, when he draws back a little further. They're not touching anymore and, suddenly, whatever they had so tenuously managed to establish not two seconds ago – that they shared the same secret, the same fantasy, the same madness – starts to slip away at a tremendous speed.

"I don't know," he says very quietly and Bulma can only nod – though if she's ever experienced a moment where she can feel her heart break, that would be it, with this nebulous fear curling beneath her ribs, when this horrible thought that she's making a fool of herself seizes her with violence. She scans his face again, looking for clues, again – her brain racing to find a way to come out on top, to put it – _him_ – right.

"Well," she has to lick her lips. "I wasn't expecting that," she says. "But I don't think this is very smart, so –

"What did you expect?" Goku interjects, entirely – purposefully? – ignoring the second half of her reasoning and looking at her with some sort of amused suspicion that gets on Bulma's last nerve – he's back to his same old goofy grin but, right now, there's a decidedly mischievous edge to it and that, well, that is simply _unacceptable._

"Nothing!" she snaps, suddenly so angry, painfully aware of the blood beating beneath her skin. "You're impossible!"

"You didn't like it?!" Goku says and it's with satisfaction that she detects the slightest hint of irritation, which is a lot when it comes to him – she doesn't know how they've gone from something that resembled a declaration of – well – _something,_ to this petty argument, but she's sure as hell all down for the normalcy of it –

"I've barely even noticed it!" she fires back.

"Well, sorry!"

"Is this how you kiss?!"

Unexpectedly, Goku chuckles. She'll never know how he does it, how he manages to laugh in the face of disaster. It's a good-natured chuckle, soft and bubbly, no offense taken is what he's saying and she hates him for it, but then he slides a hand up her face and what is worse is that she _wants him to_ , his fingers resting below her ear, his thumb caressing her cheek.

It's gentle, in a way that surprises her, but she's too taken aback to really marvel at it. It _feels_ real, but the realness of it has a dreaminess she cannot explain; she accepts the slight touch of his coarse fingertips in a trancelike state, as if it were an out-of-body experience, something entirely beyond her consciousness' control – and thus she can't help it when she finds herself leaning into his touch, only slightly, letting out a shivery sigh.

He smiles. Just a tiny bend pulling at the corners of his mouth but it changes his face completely and there's also something else, something more littering Goku's beautiful features, something strange: a magnetic ready-to-burst quiet, very different from his usual even keel, some kind of resolution she's already seen on him, though never on the outside of a battlefield. The thought triggers an unwanted fresh wave of excitement, hot and wet between her thighs, sticky like freshly-spilled blood: it's the look he reserves for the good fights, when he doesn't doubt the courage and toughness of his opponent but – _right now_ – it's for her that those green eyes are shining, it's for her that that droplet of sweat is about to trickle down his temple and that, underneath his clothes, his heart is tumbling away, not for an enemy, not for anybody else and she inhales sharply because this, this, _this_ –

"Can I –

"Yes," Bulma exhales, and she's barely uttered the word that his mouth is on her mouth and the world falls away.

Only faintly she's aware that her heart has started again.

.

.

.

Their lips part and they touch the tips of their tongues, flesh on flesh, muscle on muscle, alive and awake for the first time. It's not nearly enough to quench her thirst though – her deepest, best buried desire comes gasping to the front and she opens her mouth to let his tongue unfurl inside fully. The taste of him is incredibly, surprisingly sweet; he's a revelation in that – and she makes this sighing, yielding sound that breaks the barrier of caution and marks the start of something entirely unknown between them.

It's all familiar and then not – it's still them, Bulma and Son Goku, yet they're strangers in this act – and _yet_ she can swear she knows him by heart, because he's finally kissing her with the youthful enthusiasm he puts in everything else he does, and that is how she recognizes him.

He swirls his tongue around in her mouth, fingers raking the back of her scalp – she clutches him with all her strength, thrusting back with her tongue into his mouth, almost savagely, teeth clashing and saliva mixing, and falling sighs and heavy breathes – until he moans into her mouth as in her dreams once, a sound so pretty, the most erotic cry of surrender she's ever heard. It's unbelievable that _it is_ coming from him, raw, delicious, so low it echoes in her bones and it hurts exquisitely and don't, _don't_ , don't ever stop she thinks like a prayer, easing her hands under his jacket, slipping it off from his shoulders – if you do, then I'll never have the courage to speak again and I don't know about you, Goku, I don't know what made _you_ speak, but I feel like this is the only chance we're gonna get –

He rushes onward as if he can read her mind and who's to say he's not doing just that; he grabs her wrists and drives her against the wall at her back, pinning one arm on each side of her face, and she hisses and curses at the same time when her head hits the wall a little more forcefully than necessary, her eyes going wide and then fluttering shut again. He presses his body onto hers with a sound of fabric on fabric and, even through his clothes, she discovers the incredible heat of his skin – then the kissing resumes and lengthens again, it goes back to a gnawing exploration of mouths, their heads lolling and turning against one another and their tongues wrestling, flailing away at each other – there is this blurred sea of familiar faces dancing at the edge of her consciousness, a jury that would forever condemn them, but everything is being washed away by the obliterating surge of pleasure sending chills rippling down her spine and she knows she'll already be wet by the time he even gets so far as to look at her cunt.

He chooses that moment to extricate himself from the kiss, desperate to breathe, but he's restless; he lowers his head to bite at her neck, to kiss her against the pulse drumming under her jaw – open-mouthed, breathing her in, forcing her head up.

" _Ah_ …"

Bulma's pant is loud and thick in the stillness of the laboratory. Goku's erection is jutting out against her hipbone and she bucks vigorously against him, so ready, already wanting more and so soon – she can't hear anything; there's only a thin, tiny ringing in her ears, yet she's sure he's whispering something against her throat, teeth and wet breath grazing her skin, his hair tickling her jaw. She can't make out the words; she can't hear him, or can't understand him, and she tells herself she'll have to ask him, but later, because now his hands are squeezing her ass, and then they're on her hips, on her sides and she feels him getting rid of her lab coat and now he's yanking the collar of her short dress down around her shoulders and she's guiding him to lift it off over her head and when he finally throws it aside she looks up, in bra and panties in front of this man, who's also the boy she's known for half of her life. He returns her gaze and, for seconds on end, everything stops. There's only stillness and this sudden clarity of mind. She recognizes this moment – those cheeks so flushed, those eyes so wide in what is, unmistakably, in pure and unconcealed wonder. He reaches with one hand to touch her lips –

(this time, she will get it right.)

"Goku…"

This time, his name sounds like a new word on her lips; rushed and desperate, half-broken in the middle and their movements become sharp, frantic: she pulls his hair and forces his face down against her chest – there is some fumbling with her bra and he pushes down the cups to free her breasts; he finds a nipple, tiny and hard, and he hungrily traps it between his teeth.

She gasps. Her entire spine goes rigid. The stab of pleasure strikes straight through her back, thrilling and swelling – his tongue passes swiftly all over her white breasts and she makes a fist of his hair – he moans wordlessly and she grabs the back of his shirt. She tugs and pulls, and lifts it up, and he shrugs it away – her nails sink into his bare skin, her other hand quickly undoes his buckle and his khakis give way just enough for her to slip a hand between fabric and skin. She grabs his cock and gives it a squeeze, burning thickness between her fingers – Goku's back arches into a shudder. Her entire body is thrumming with new energy, something in her blood is surging – her grip becomes stronger and his head falls back, his hips jerk forward and she increases her rhythm, and his breath comes faster, and when he's about to shatter beneath her hands she releases him.

"B-Bulma…"

He loses it and grinds on her at once, with a low growl, pushing her back flat to the wall – she feels every inch of him on her skin, scorching hot, and she feels on fire, electrocuted, hurting with lust and love and want, like her heart might explode out of her body when she lifts one leg, and he slips his hands under her butt and she can finally wrap her legs around his waist, tight, so tight, and with a guttural cry he lunges into her so easy, so damn perfect, once, twice, and again, slow, and hard, and then faster, faster, and she moans, and cries, and kisses him hard, twisting her fingers in the muscles of his back, closing her eyes, calling his name and wishing, wishing, wishing this could never end, wishing she could be absorbed, now, Goku, _now_ –

She comes, hard, writhing and shaking apart against him and he comes within her with a keening sound that makes her feel high – let's do it again, she wants to say, and yes, please, and Goku, Goku, _Goku_ , and this is it, this has to be how the other Bulma unwound the clock, how she figured out what is time, and what is space. Here, now, they feel solid and fluid all at once: a translucent fabric, gliding like a drop of mercury, that can be seen and maybe touched – but there's only one force of nature that can truly grasp it and bend it at will, and perhaps this is it, that is how they've ended up here, in this corner today, tangled in each other in this moment in time.

.

.

.

* _Say, what should I do?/ It's true, I have to end up somewhere/ Far from your lands, from your memory/ I just wanted to say goodbye/ Just one last time, to see you again/ Before I go, before I get lost/ I would love for us to be close/ and then we can part._


	4. The Promise

_Oh, to see without my eyes_

 _The first time that you kissed me._

 _iv_

They collapse in a heap to the floor, starburst bright and warm behind her eyelids and _"good thing these walls are soundproof,"_ is what she remembers thinking, awash in bliss and release, pondering if this is what is like to get well and truly fucked: backed into a wall, her oldest, married, Super Saiyan (best?) friend working over her and the end of the world hanging above their heads.

Her heart is battering against her ribcage with the unbearable urgency of a war drum – her thighs are still trembling and clenching. She can hear Goku's breathing, fast and close, and she runs a hand through her hair and then through his, reaching blindly, around the back, by his neck, still panting, and there's this new, salty, piercing note breaking through his scent and _okay seriously_ , she thinks, let's do it again – and then there's a chuckle and a shaky _"wha…?"_ – more an exhale than a whisper in her ear, but more than enough to make her wonder if she's spoken out loud and that is how she abruptly comes back to herself.

Her eyes fly open. "Did you – did you lock the door?"

"Uh," Goku says. "The door?"

"Shit!" Bulma wheezes, pushing him off of her and fixing her panties back in place, ignoring his groan of protest and hissing a _"get dressed!"_ while scrambling to recover her own clothes from the floor. Her legs feel boneless but she jumps up nonetheless and hastily pulls the dress over her head. When she reemerges, Goku still hasn't moved; he's sprawled on the floor, giving her this odd, wide-eyed look and –

" _Shit!_ " she says again, the word just a small whistle between clenched teeth. The sheer magnitude of what they've both said and done hits her like a fist to the windpipe, pushes her down and knocks the wind out of her and she can't even look at him – she feels sick with guilt, suffocated, bothered by his presence, by his existence even, and she wants to scream, to tell him to get the hell out of the world for bringing them to _this_ and – and _yet_ there's part of her that just wants to touch him one more time; part of her that wanted to say again 'Goku, Goku, Goku' as if it was the only word that she knew – that wanted to say stay, _stay_ , stay with me just a little longer –

She moans and covers her eyes with both hands, moves them away briefly and slaps them back in what is like the world's most deranged peek-a-boo game, while Goku finally catches the hint and stands – he sighs and picks his briefs and pants from around his ankles, pulling them up with a silent rustle of cotton over skin.

Something indescribable is happening inside Bulma's chest, beneath her ribs. Something is expanding, painfully, taking her breath away, threatening to explode – a nuclear bomb, or a much more mundane heart attack because what else could that feeling be – she starts pacing back and forth, turning her head back and forth, savagely, then halting, then pacing some more. She runs her hands through her hair over and over, restless, unable to stop.

" _This_ ," she says, twirling on her feet one final time to face him – but there's a turbulent gasp in her voice and she has to try again. "This can _never_ happen again."

Goku pauses from where he's busy with his belt buckle. He looks up and Bulma knows what is going to happen before it does –

"Bulma…"

She wishes he would never say her name like that.

"Don't," she warns, though the word ends on a pathetic rising note. "Don't say anything stupid."

Goku doesn't answer right away. Instead, he gets this petulant face and once again she's struck silent by how human he is today, in this room, in front of her, even with the blond hair, even with the alien eyes – and that she's the one who can get him to look like that – but it only lasts a few seconds; he turns away, bending to retrieve his shirt from the floor and she's left there standing like an idiot, staring at his back, her arms hanging loosely at her sides: she watches this teasing flash of pink and white skin, and the cords of his muscles, the way they tense and flex while he puts his shirt back on. She blinks and thinks about his sweat-damp hair between her fingers just moments ago. Blinks again and feels his hands grabbing her hips. Again and hears the way his breath stuttered in her ear while he was about to come.

She thinks she wants to hear that sound again.

"I wasn't going to," Goku says, and tucks his shirt into his pants; Bulma's hands are trembling, minute spasms running through the fingers when he turns around to face her. She sucks in a breath. His gaze drops to her mouth and flicks back to her eyes.

"You're forgetting," she says carefully. "That we have more important things to do right now."

It's cruel, she's well aware of it – but unexpectedly Goku one-ups her.

"I _know_ that."

"Right," she snarls. "Then why the hell are you still here?

Goku lets out this breath like she's finally succeeded to piss him off completely and that is alright by her.

"Can you do me a favor?" he asks and she scoffs, shaking her head, and though she wants to say ' _no'_ what comes out is:

"What?"

"Don't come to the Cell Games." It barely sounds like a request. It sounds like a command and Bulma frowns, but Goku's expression softens a bit. "This time just – stay where it's safe. Okay?"

"Oh." Bulma swallows. "Okay." She says it quietly, with a tenderness in her tone that she didn't mean and that she almost doesn't recognize. So, she tries to counter it. "I wasn't planning to, anyway."

He delivers a look that makes her wonder why she even bothered, but he doesn't say anything and she just watches as he fetches his jacket from where she had discarded it earlier. He shrugs into it and there's this itch on the surface of her brain that she can't bring forward.

" _But_ ," she hears herself blurt out, "you'll win." Her throat tightens around the next word. "Right?"

There's a moment, fleeting, but that Bulma feels clearly; Goku stares at her the same way he kept staring at her the first time Trunks showed up, like there's something huge he wants to say – then it's over when a weird smile that doesn't part his lips stretches on his face.

It's his turn to spin his words carefully. "It's going to be alright, one way or the other."

She doesn't want to know what that means. "What do you mean?"

Goku moves closer, deeper in her personal space. For a moment, it seems like he's about to pull her in his arms, but he just settles his hands on her shoulders.

"Nothing's gonna happen to you, Bulma," he says and he's so earnest, so sure, that her breath catches and the force in her chest lurches but she says "It'd better not," instead of doing something stupid like kissing him or telling him that no matter what, even when she doesn't want to, he will always be the only one she will always trust with her life.

(Later, she will wonder if and how their definitions of _stupid_ match).

She reaches out and wipes with her thumb the lipstick stains around his mouth. Goku smiles, his real smile this time, a gorgeous grin that makes his green eyes sparkle. He flexes his fingers around her shoulders, pressing into her skin a little before letting go, and picks the dragon radar from his pocket, clicking a few time on the button on the top. The radar bleeps to life.

His eyes move to meet hers.

"See ya," he says, and disappears into thin air.

"Yeah," she whispers, but she's already breathing a little bit easier. "See ya."

.

.

.

 _What about you?_ She knows she should have asked. _What's going to happen to you?_

* * *

 _._

 _._

 _._

 _tbc_


End file.
